60. Or----gy

The sun glared down upon the City of Morhat, its noonlight sharp and pitiless. Shadows shrank to the edges of alleys, hiding from the heat. The cobbled streets shimmered faintly as Albert Newton walked with careful steps, his cloak rustling just above his boots. Though his stride was steady, his heart betrayed a discomfort he rarely let surface.

He was going to an orgy.

Deep in the underworld of Morhat, beyond merchant codes and faceless trade deals, there existed more... exotic arrangements. Some were pleasure for the sake of chaos. Others were veiled auctions for information, artifacts, or worse. Today's invitation? A gathering hosted by a noble house no longer listed among the city's public records.

Albert hated it.

The embarrassment twisted under his ribs like a misfired calculation. Not because of the act itself—he'd seen worse, far worse—but because of how surreal it felt to go as a guest, not an infiltrator.

He stopped near a quiet courtyard, a sun-bleached square forgotten behind three crumbling buildings. The stone floor was cracked and half-swallowed by weeds, and an old water pump stood rusted at its center. This place was dead, which made it perfect.

Albert took a breath and shed his restraint.

Feathers bloomed into reality.

Two shimmering constructs of the Feather trait fluttered under his suitcase, lifting it smoothly into the air. Another pair circled the case slowly, adjusting its presence, bending the space around it. Within seconds, it faded—utterly invisible to any eye except his own.

His suitcase followed like a loyal ghost.

Albert narrowed his gaze. His recent advancement to Tier II, Methodical in the Watcher Route wasn't just a title—it was a key. He could now mold his traits with finesse, blend into environments, mask aura signatures, and glimpse beneath veils. It came with power, and responsibility, and... these ridiculous moments.

He adjusted the brown-blakish cap on his head, sighed, and muttered, "You've dealt with eldritch priests. This is nothing."

But it wasn't true. This was different. Because in this upcoming room—this den of silk, perfume, and masks—he wouldn't be fighting beasts or interrogating cultists. He would be surrounded by people who lied with their eyes and fed secrets with their smiles. Information passed in whispers between moans. Names traded between breaths.

And somewhere within that decadence, Albert hoped to locate the lead he needed—a man rumored to possess a relic tied to the Forgotten Saint. Possibly even a trail to the long-lost Staff of Revolution.

He couldn't afford to let awkwardness shake his resolve.

One last breath. One final check.

Gloves, clean. Eyes, calm. Voice, unused.

Albert stepped out of the courtyard and continued toward the underworld's entrance. The sun above watched silently, knowing nothing of the shadows crawling beneath its noon gaze.

The velvet curtains parted with a sigh as Albert Newton stepped into the grand chamber. Candles flickered along the crimson walls, perfumed smoke hung like mist, and soft music floated through the sultry air like a lazy cat on a windowsill.

He paused—one foot in, the other out.

Everywhere he looked, there were bodies: lounging, laughing, glistening, entwined. Silk robes slipped carelessly off shoulders. Masks glinted gold and silver. Someone poured wine directly into someone else's mouth. Someone else was... doing things Albert tried not to process.

He took one cautious step in, clutching his invisible suitcase like a life preserver.

Then, all at once—

"Ohhh! Who is this?"

"Aww, look at that little serious face!"

"He's adorable! I call dibs!"

"No, no, I saw him first—he's mine!"

A wave of whores surged toward him, silk and lace flapping like battle flags.

Albert's eyes widened. "W-Wait, no—"

Too late.

Hands reached, fingers wiggled. One woman pounced with a playful growl. Another leaned in, whispering something so bold it made Albert blush hard enough to power a small village.

"Please!" he cried, backing up fast. "This is a misunderstanding! I'm here for a—AAAA!"

A hand grabbed his cloak and tugged. Someone tried to boop his nose. Another tried to lick his ear. A particularly confident woman called him "puppy boy."

Albert bolted.

Down a hallway of moaning, laughing shadows he ran, boots slipping on satin rugs. A tray of wine glasses toppled behind him as he dodged a lounging couple. One woman gave chase with a giggle, twirling her feathered boa like a lasso.

"You can't run from love, darling!"

"Watch me!" Albert shouted, ducking past a golden statue and sliding into a side corridor.

He found a door—plain, wooden, slightly ajar.

He dived in and slammed it shut behind him, chest heaving.

Silence.

Inside was a small sitting room, empty and blissfully calm. A few robes hung on a rack. A faint scent of lavender drifted from a bowl of dried flowers. Albert leaned against the door, panting, sweat beading on his brow.

"My god," he whispered. "That was more terrifying than the Dream of that Eyeball."

From behind the couch, a soft voice asked, "Did they try to lick your ear too?"

Albert jumped. A terrified Old man in a frilly robe peeked up, clearly pissed off mood.

They locked eyes, nodded solemnly in shared horror... then both sank to the floor, clutching their dignity.

....

Albert's heart had only just started returning to a regular rhythm when the door creaked open again.

He was old—perhaps seventy—but not feeble. His build was wiry and disciplined, like a swordsman who'd lived past every duel. A cascade of graying curls fell past his shoulders, oddly regal despite the fact he wore a ridiculously frilly robe: violet silk, feathered collar, and sleeves wide enough to smuggle foxes.

His expression? A permanent scowl, the kind that made babies cry and rebels reconsider.

"So," the man said, voice like gravel soaked in aged wine. "You're the one Andrew sent."

Albert stood up straight, suitcase still hovering by his side under the effect of his feathers. "...You know Andrew Fritz?"

The old man gave a snort and shut the door behind him with his cane. "Know him? Bastard owes me three bottles of Elvenfire wine and half a lung. We go back a long way. He said you'd come sniffing for the Staff of Revolution."

Albert's eyes narrowed. "I didn't think it was still real. I thought it was just... some forgotten relic in museum records."

"It was real. Then it became myth. Now it's real again, and everyone with a mask and a miracle wants their grubby hands on it," the old man muttered, moving over to a lacquered cabinet and pulling out a dusty crystal decanter. He poured two glasses, holding one out. "Drink?"

"I'll pass," Albert said flatly. "You smell like a warehouse fire soaked in cologne."

The old man barked a laugh, then sipped his own glass. "Smart lad. Though you're overdressed for an orgy, I'll give you that. I'm Verno Luxfar."

Albert blinked. "You're the owner of this place?"

"And its architect," Verno said with a grim bow, his robe swishing. "Everything from the ceiling tiles to the moaning chandeliers. A sanctuary for those who've lost everything and still want to pretend life is a lustful dream."

"...That's tragic and disturbing," Albert muttered.

"It is both," Verno agreed with no shame. "But I don't just run dens of sin. I also happen to be the director of the Mirgarth Auction—the most secretive and high-stakes bidding event on Earth. Where the Staff of Revolution last changed hands for 1,250 Gaus."

Albert's jaw tightened. "That's what Andrew told me. That you'd know where it went."

"I do more than know," Verno said, swirling his drink. "I have it."

Albert's eyes widened, a silent breath catching in his throat.

"But," Verno continued, walking over and placing the untouched second glass on a side table, "I don't hand over miracle-laced artifacts like candy. You want it? You'll have to earn it."

Albert frowned. "Name your price."

Verno pointed at him with the cane. "Join my team. For the Hollowpetal Tournament."

Albert blinked. "A tournament? What kind of tournament?"

"The kind where people bleed poetry and monsters laugh," Verno said, his grin twisted. "Where underworld elites—rogues, exorcists, smugglers, miracle invokers, even fallen angels—compete for artifacts, glory, or vengeance."

"Why would a man like you need me?" Albert asked.

Verno's face darkened, the shadows under his eyes deepening. "Because my miracles were shattered. My soul once echoed with the voice of the Divine Path. I was a Tier IV, Taylor Route –3 of Lucky Charmer path in the Order of the Marching Sun. But then, during the Eltorn Calamity, I faced a Miracle that… broke me, 28 years ago."

He undid the top of his robe slightly, revealing a scorched mark over his heart—twisting lines of divine script melted into blackened scars.

"I died that day," he said. "And yet, I survived in the name of the God of Calamity, whom I cursed in the same breath I begged him. Now, I walk a path with no divinity. No choir. Only rot."

Albert lowered his gaze respectfully. "And yet you're still here."

"Because I found a reason to be," Verno muttered. "The Staff. It's not just a tool—it's a beacon. And there are those who must not be allowed to wield it. I need to win this tournament. You, Andrew's little protégé, will help me do it. You've got that Watcher look—the way your eyes see behind things. You're already Tier II, aren't you?"

Albert nodded slowly. "Yes... I'm Methodical. Feather Trait."

Verno grinned. "Figures. No wonder you float like a paranoid squirrel."

Albert scratched his cheek, a bit flustered. "I wasn't sure if you were a threat."

"I am a threat," Verno said, tapping his cane on the floor. "To the ones who broke me."

There was a silence between them then—quiet but heavy.

Finally, Albert extended a hand. "I'll enter your tournament. I'll help you win it. And then I'll take the Staff."

Verno clasped his hand with surprising strength. "Deal. But watch your back, boy. The tournament doesn't forgive cowards. And the others? They're not here for fun."

"Neither am I," Albert replied, eyes sharp.

....

Albert stepped out into the daylight, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. Noon sun glared above, but the street outside the crimson-tiled Orgy Hall was oddly quiet.

He found Verno standing under the shade of a rusted awning, sipping something that smelled like spoiled wine. The man looked half-dressed for a royal banquet, half-dressed for a clown parade — frilly crimson robe swaying in the breeze, golden slippers scuffed from age.

Albert cleared his throat. "I need a place to stay. For a few days."

Verno arched a brow, the corner of his wine-slicked mouth twitching. "I assumed you Watcher types slept upside down in crypts. Or maybe in coffins."

Albert didn't smile.

Verno squinted at him. "No jokes, huh? Alright." He tossed the goblet onto the ground, where it shattered like cheap glass. "I suppose you'll want something quiet. Modest. With hot water and walls that don't moan during the night."

"Preferably," Albert muttered.

"Then allow me," Verno said, waving to a man in black leather standing near a corner post. "Jorek! Call up the Greyswan broker. Tell him the third-floor apartment facing the dry canal is being purchased. Under my name. Full payment, no haggle."

The man vanished without a word.

Albert narrowed his eyes. "You're buying me an apartment?"

Verno grinned. "Let's call it an investment. You win my tournament, I get my prize. You get a roof, a bath, and maybe a few days without someone rubbing oil on you."

Albert blinked once.

Verno leaned closer. "Don't look so stiff. This is Morhat. We make our friends comfortable. Especially those who'll help us win impossible things."

Albert's gaze dropped slightly. "That artifact means something to you."

"Maybe it does," Verno replied, suddenly serious. "Maybe it's the only piece of divinity I have left. And maybe I need it more than anyone else in that room." He gave a thin smile. "Don't worry. I'm not asking questions I wouldn't answer."

Silence lingered.

Verno straightened, clapped Albert on the shoulder. "Go get some rest, champion. Keys'll be delivered by dusk. And don't worry — I didn't furnish the place with anything that bites."

Albert gave a faint nod and turned to leave. Behind him, Verno chuckled.

"Unless you count the neighbors, of course."